"What did you find, kid?" the man with the fancy sword asked, his steps slow and measured.
'Kill them, kill them all. Give 'em the good ol' one-two, I taught you,' the voice in his head muttered.
"Shut up," he accidentally said out loud.
"What did you say?" The man's voice cut sharp. His hand shifted on the sword, grip tightening.
"Nothing."
He stepped back. His legs twitched, chest tight, like his body was begging him to bolt in opposite directions. But he knew it was useless. The moment he even thought about turning, the fast one would plunge a dagger into his chest. Worse, the man with the sword would unleash that same attack he'd used on the serpent. It didn't matter what he picked—he still saw himself on the floor, bleeding out.
He clamped down on the egg, nails carving crescents into his palm, like letting go would kill him faster than the hunters.
A faint throb pushed back against his skin, steady and alive. He still didn't know what it was. He only knew that giving it up made his stomach turn.
He drew in a breath, trying to clear his head, blocking out the annoying voice.
'Wow, whatever. I don't need you.'
'I'm sorry… take me back.'
He breathed out, steady and slow. Right then, the noise in his head quieted. His body felt calmer. His mind sharper.
His gaze flicked across the walls, clawing for an exit that didn't exist. That left him with one option: fight.
He hadn't shed a tear since that day. His eyes burned as he forced them out, chest jerking with the shape of panic.
"I… I don't even know how I got here," he muttered, his tone flat, almost hollow. "Think I'm lost."
"I was just with my friends… playing," he stammered, his voice breaking. "Then this… this white, silver door opened. I went inside and—now I'm here." The words broke between sobs, ragged and uneven. His shoulders shook hard, every breath threatening to tear him in half.
'You're a shitty actor,' the voice laughed.
He ignored the voice.
From the outside, he was just a boy coming apart—tears, shaking, the picture of panic. Inside, his mind was steady, sharpening on who had to die first.
'The swordsman. Strongest one here. If he moves first, it's over before anyone else can blink. He has to go down first.'
'Next… the assassin. Fastest of them all. Too clean, too sharp. One strike from her and I'm done.'
'The man in the massive armor—that's the real problem. He blocked the serpent's tail without even flinching. That kind of strength… can't fight it head-on. Leave him for last.'
'The backline… the robed ones. Fragile. Easy to snap if I can close the distance.'
'But everything hinges on the swordsman. If I fail there, I'll be dead before I even touch the others.'
He closed his eyes. His left hand clamped tighter around the egg. He drew it to his chest, but their eyes were locked onto it, hungry, unashamed. He didn't need anyone to spell it out. He couldn't let go. If they wanted it this badly, it meant the egg was valuable.
"I found it… over there." He hesitated, forcing a crack into his voice. "What does this even do?" The words were bait, nothing more than a distraction to buy seconds.
"You did well," the swordsman said, avoiding his question, stepping closer, eyes fixed on the egg. "Now hand it over, and we all walk out together."
His boots scraped against stone. Too close. Too certain.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the assassin's stare was already on the serpent's carcass. She started to feel around the clean slice across its belly. Her hand suddenly stiffened, lips parting before she caught herself. Her eyes flicked to the rusted blade lying next to its belly.
"Kid," she said, disbelief bleeding through her tone. "You're telling me that scrap of metal sliced through a serpent's hide like that?"
Her tone cracked with disbelief, shock written plain across her face.
He didn't know why it rattled them. All he'd done was cut through skin. They'd split the serpent in half. Yet somehow, his cut looked like more. But whatever this was, it was good. It worked in his favor.
While they all looked away, his fingers moved slow, careful. He slipped the egg into his pocket and bit down hard on his lip. Warm, metallic blood filled his mouth.
"What—" the swordsman started, head turning to confirm what the assassin had seen.
That was the chance.
His right hand shot up, nails slick with his poisonous blood. As the man turned back toward him, he slashed across his throat—sharp and fast. The cut tore deep, deep enough to sever his voice, stealing his breath in the same motion.
The swordsman's hand clamped down, blood spilling through his fingers. His mouth opened and closed, useless, only a rasp slipping out. His chest hitched, shallow, while the venom was already eating through him.
And just as he thought, the first to notice was the assassin. Her sharp awareness was what he feared most. But the instant she turned, he spat the blood he'd stored in his mouth into her eyes.
Her scream split the chamber, heads snapping toward her. Her hands scraped at her face, nails raking at her skin. He ripped the daggers from her belt, his palm leaving a smear of blood along the steel. One hard pull across her throat. The crack in her scream died wet in her mouth.
Panic rippled through the rest of the group.
The woman in red whispered, sparks crawling up her staff. He lunged, but the armored man was already hauling his hammer free, the chain on his back rattling as the weapon came down in a brutal swing.
He dropped low, sliding between the giant's legs. His eyes locked on the other robed woman in white, the one weaving blessings and strength into the others. She had to go first. He couldn't afford her powering up anyone. His dagger swept clean across her throat, silencing her before the spell could leave her lips.
He twisted with the motion, rising behind the caster. One arm locked around her, the dagger pressing beneath her chin. His hand clamped over hers, forcing the staff upward toward the shield-bearer.
"Keep chanting," he breathed against her ear, cold and steady.
Terrified, she obeyed. Sparks flared, fire burst, and the spell shot forward under his grip, slamming into the shieldman's chest.
The explosive fireball hit him. What came out of his throat wasn't just a scream—it was rough, broken, more pain than sound. Heat crawled through the armor, turning it red before it sagged and melted. He clawed the pieces off, one after another, each clattering on the stone floor.
"Finally. An opening."
He hurled the dagger, the motion clean, practiced. It cut through the air and buried itself between the man's brows. The brute's head snapped back. His body twitched once, then collapsed on the stone. Flames clung to him, crawling over his frame until he went still.
He kept his hold on the woman in red. His hand locked around her throat. Her nails dug into his arm. She gasped, breaths coming fast and uneven, like she knew what was coming next. He twisted hard. The crack rang out, and her body sagged in his grip, limp, and quiet.
He placed her next to the others. Then his gaze swept the room. The stench of smoke and blood clung to the air, burning his throat. His heart pounded like a drum, each beat heavy and loud. But it wasn't fear—it was the rush, crawling under his skin.
His hand dipped into his pocket. The egg was still there. Blood slicked his palm, smearing across the shell until it seemed to sink inside.
A crooked smile touched his lips.
"Oh, you like that?" he muttered, feeling it throb against his hand like a heartbeat. "I'll take that as a yes."